


The Prince and the Champion

by moistgoblin (orphan_account)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, im just bein safe, its short cuz i was just kinda spittin ideas on a word doc yknow?, not really graphic but its like, some blood yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 21:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12490788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/moistgoblin
Summary: A what-if scenario in which Lotor fights Shiro in the Galra gladiator arena.





	The Prince and the Champion

**Author's Note:**

> lotors introduction was him fighting in a galra arena, shiro had to fight in a galra arena, what if we COMBINE these ideas and... yeah basically this is just a what if. 99.999999% p sure this is impossible in canon but yknow thats what the "not canon compliant" tag is for. btw shiro is referred to as "champion" the whole time.

  
Seeing the Champion face to face was completely and utterly

_underwhelming._

Lotor hadn’t expected any sort of hulking brute, of course, but he still felt that there would be, _more_. The one who could take down Myzax on his first battle, the one who took down Ripper, Yuxtav, Icorus, who injured his own friend out of bloodlust, he thought the Champion would be something else, something more, something angry.

The fighter that stood before him wasn’t much larger than himself, just a bit more muscular, and he had bits of white scattered through the front of his hair. He didn’t seem the bloodthirsty beast so many others had led Lotor to believe he was.

He just seemed...tired. His body language seemed alert, but his eyes told a different story.

But perhaps it was a ruse. Make your opponent think you’re already weak so they let their guard down, and then surprise them. Probably effective on simpler minded opponents, but Lotor was not of a simple mind.

* * *

 

The roar of the crowd would have been deafening if not for Lotor’s helmet. Champion shifted his feet in apprehension. Lotor drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

Champion rushed him, and the battle began. Their swords clashed, Lotor’s luxite alloy blade denting the old steel of Champion’s sword. The sound of metal hitting metal was drowned out by the cheers and whooping of the audience.

* * *

 

Lotor found Champion a formidable opponent. He was clearly unused to fighting someone the same size as him, his swings were often wider than necessary, but they packed a lot of power. More than once Lotor saw a new scrape or dent in his armor, or felt hot sticky blood in the gaps between the hard plates of his arm, leg, and chest guards. There was also a small fracture in his helmet from where Champion whacked him with the pommel of his sword.

But that wasn’t to say Champion was winning. He was faring far worse, physically. He was sporting long, oozing gash across his nose, courtesy of Lotor’s custom made blade, along with dozens of other cuts and bruises across his chest and arms. The purple shirt he had on was nearly in shreds now, hanging onto his right shoulder by a thread. Some kind of liquid was clinging to his skin like condensation, and he was panting. Regardless, he was fighting just as hard as he had been at the start.

* * *

 

Lotor felt himself beginning to tire, and that’s when he realized Champion’s strategy. He obviously had an enormous amount of stamina, and even though he was not the strongest, or fastest, or largest, but he could hold out longer than his opponent. And when his opponent grew weak and tired, he would go in for the kill.

With his newfound understanding, Lotor decided it was time to end the fight. Not that he was scared of losing of course, no no, but because it could go on for ever. The crowd might get bored, you know, and then what’s the point? He was armored, Champion wasn't, why would he be even worried about losing? He had been trained extensively in sword fighting for deca-phoebs, Champion had been fighting in an arena for only seven phoebs and was clearly self taught, there was no way Lotor could lose, and-

A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, and he slashed at Champion’s sword arm, and Champion screamed. Blood splattered across Lotor’s visor, and he wiped it away. His vision was tainted red, but he could clearly see Champion backing away, clutching his right arm.

What was left of his right arm. The other half lay at Lotor’s feet, the hand limply curled around the hooked sword. Blood stained the sand black. The crowd was screaming and cheering and chanting. Lotor removed his helmet, as he always did after a victory, and the air smelled like iron.

He looked up at the crowd and saluted, and then turned back around to where Champion had fallen, still gripping his arm.

He crouched in front of the other, and opened his mouth to speak, before feeling something hard collide with his face. He yelped and fell back, and the crowd burst into laughter and jeers.

_What…?_

His nose was broken. He tasted blood. A bruise was forming on Champion’s forehead.

“Did you just _headbutt me_?” Lotor demanded, blue blood flying from his mouth. 

Champion glared at him with dark grey eyes. His face was turning pale. 

Lotor growled and stood back up. He aimed the tip of his sword at Champion’s nose.

“It would be in your best interest to not disrespect a prince,” he snarled.

“You’re no prince of mine,” Champion barked back, and the sentries came to take him away.


End file.
